Old Dogs
by Boomertron
Summary: Bill is constantly battling with his inner demons and the very real demons left roaming the Earth after a biological apocalypse. Can an old football coach from a different walk of life be someone to confide in? Slow paced old guy bromance. Short chapters.


Early evening. Scuffling in the sand signifies the first human footsteps to disturb the soil of this rotten mid-western ghost town for weeks. The first life form to emerge from the surrounding brush is an African male in a tattered formal work shirt. With his torn up red tie tossed over his shoulder, a brunette teenage girl in a red sweatshirt rests injured in his arms.

"Louis." She whispered. Her voice was as soft as it was bold. "I promise I'm fine."

He responded with a silent glance as the thinning grass behind them rustled. The voice of an older man echoed from the trees.

"Don't even think about it, Zoey."

The voice huffed as another figure emerged. His features were weathered not only by their travels, but by the toll that age had taken on him. After fighting in Vietnam, Bill never imagined he would be waging a literal war on disease. He kneeled over in the dirt, grasping at his pockets for a cigarette he knew he didn't have. The pleasant abundance of newfound sunlight was shortly appreciated before the harsh reality of the southern heat sunk in. Bill removed his green jacket and tossed it aside, no longer needing that bloody mess of once fond memories.

"I hate trees!" The raspy voice of a fourth soul proclaimed from the deep woods behind them.

Soon after, it revealed itself as thirty-something in what was presumably an ironic biker get-up. He glanced at the oldest of the group with his eyes towards the ground and let out a vain snicker.

"So who's going to carry the old man?" he joked.

"The same person who's going to drag your ass along when I knock it out cold, Francis." Bill responded in a much more serious tone.

He shook his head and returned to standing solid on his two feet. Giving the biker an apologetic look with no more words spoken, he proceeded to stare back into his own two empty palms.

"I'd kill for anything to smoke right now."

With that comment in mind, Francis took a couple steps backwards. The sight of brick and wood in the distance caught his eye.

"Not a vampire for miles, lady and gentlemen." He proudly observed. "Let's hope this town aint a dry one." He sighed to himself as he sauntered towards the dusty buildings.

Francis lived for only two things: Alcohol and the inevitable bare-knuckle brawling that followed. He was proud to call himself a zombie fighter, countering the various negative names his father may have called him. This road warrior was the son of a lawyer, and after landing himself a few years in prison, he had decided to sever his ties. The biker didn't know where his father was now, and never really cared to find out. There were no signs to tell the man where he was going to find his fix of questionable beverages. There were no words anywhere. Most of the windows had been completely shattered, leaving the pathetic shops and homes with broken faces and a perilous lack of definite direction. Most doors had been knocked off of their hinges, which gave Francis the opportunity to examine and pilfer the increasingly desolate entrails of each coming shack, hut, center, and surplus. He mumbled to himself as he rummaged through cabinets and pantries, inhaling whatever dust and webs had been left behind for him to gradually get angrier at.

"God damn it!"

"Jonesing for booze, are we?"

The female survivor's words startled him. Zoey laughed as she stood in the doorway, finally given the freedom to stand on her own again.

"You're not going to start crying are you?"

"I've just got some dirt in my eye."

"Sure."

The biker rubbed his eyes and rested his back against the wall, letting his watery gaze wander towards the empty window space. The restaurant across the street went in and out of focus, dancing with the bits of broken glass lining the rectangular frame. He shifted away from the dizzying view.

"I'll make you cry." He grumbled under his breath.

"What was that?"

"I hate ghost towns."

Zoey's smile became more lighthearted as she backed away a few footsteps from the doorway with her hands dug into her sweatshirt pockets. The dark wooden walls of the mysterious shop were depressing and bare. They didn't appear to have been emptied at the hands of devious looters, but instead they appeared to have been this way forever. Her smile sank as her eyes dived towards the bloody planks on the floor.

"What do you think these people even had to live for before this whole mess happened?"

Francis gave her a somewhat unidentifiable look of what could have been confusion or further annoyance.

"Huh?"

"This place, I mean."

"What the hell about it, Zoey."

"Never mind."

She shuffled her feet uncomfortably for a few awkward and silent seconds before turning away.

"Jesus Christ, what a downer." Francis said with an unnatural meekness. "Maybe you're the one who needs a drink."

The teenager ignored his comments or she didn't hear them. He didn't know for sure, and after more disturbing silences he decided to continue his fruitless pillaging.

Louis sat on the steps in front of the burnt wreckage of what appeared to have been a grocery store. Only the front wall remained standing. There were broken bottles scattered across the medium-sized parking lot, collecting near cracks and blackened craters. His chin sunk into his palms as he stared off into city. It winded off further than it had originally appeared, as if urban sprawl were literally unfolding right before his eyes, while in appearance skipping right to the apocalyptic aftermath.

"Catch!"

The ex-desk jockey whipped his head toward the sound of Bill's voice to find a small cardboard box headed in his direction. Reflexes kicked in as his arms stretched out for the object, but it came down flat against his chest. Crackers spilled out onto his lap and over the pavement. Louis' smile pushed away at his slowly collapsing cheeks, revealing that same hopeful optimism he had displayed when Bill had originally discovered him hiding under the rubble of what had once been his office. The reminiscing ended quickly as a sharp twisting took over his stomach. The decaying manager tore into the box and began taking crackers in fists, scraping his hands on the stale edges as he forced them into his mouth. Bill looked on in modest admiration, too happy for his friend to warn him of the massive thirst that was sure to follow.


End file.
